The Amazing World of Edgar Allen Poe
by TheBestGamer
Summary: (Not my best title but it's the only one I thought of) All the characters of the show re-enact the stories of one of the best, well known authors in history, Edgar Allen Poe. This chapters character(s): Carrie
1. The Black Cat

**The Black Cat**

_For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not - and very surely do I not dream. But tomorrow I die, and today I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified - have tortured - have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror - to many they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place - some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects._

-The words of Mr. Robinson

From his infancy Mr. Robinson was noted for the docility and humanity of his own disposition. His tenderness of heart was even so conspicuous as to make him the jest of his companions. He was especially fond of animals, and was indulged by his parents with a great variety of pets. With these he spent most of his time, and never was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. This peculiarity of character grew with his growth, and, in his manhood, he derived from it one of his principal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, Mr. Robinson need hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere man.

Mr. Robinson married early, and was happy to find in his wife a disposition not uncongenial with his own. Observing his partiality for domestic pets, Mrs. Robinson lost no opportunity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. They had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.

This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing degree. In speaking of his intelligence, Mrs. Robinson, who at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion, which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. Not that she was ever serious upon that point and Mr. Robinson mentioned the matter at all for no better reason than that it happens, just now, to be remembered.

Pluto, this was the cat's name, was my favorite pet and playmate. Mr. Robinson alone fed him, and he attended him wherever he went about the the house. It was even with difficulty that Mr. Robinson could prevent him from following him through the streets.

Their friendship lasted , in this manner, for several years, during which Mr. Robinson's general temperament and character through the instrumentality of the Fiend Intemperance had experienced a radical alteration for the worst. He grew, day by day, more muddy, more iritable, more regardless of the feelings of others. Mr. Robinson suffered himself to use intemperate language to his wife. At length, he even offered her personal violence. His pets, of course, were made to feel the change in his disposition. Mr. Robinson not only neglected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, Mr. Robinson still retained sufficient regard to restrain himself for maltreating Pluto, as he made no scruple of maltreating the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by accident, or through affection, they came in his way. But Mr. Robinson's disease grew upon him for what disease is like Alcohol and at length even Pluto, who was now becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish, even Pluto began to experience the effects of Mr. Robinson's ill temper.

One night, returning home, much intoxicated, from one of his haunts about town, Mr. Robinson fancied that the cat avoided his presence. Mr. Robinson seized him; when, in his fright that his violence, he inflicted a slight wound upon Mr. Robinson's hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon instantly possessed him. He knew himself no longer. His original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-natured, thrilled every fibre of his frame. Mr. Ronbinson took from his waistcoat-pocket a pen knife, opened it, grasped the poor cat by the throat, and deliberately cut one of it's eyes from the socket! Mr. Robinson blushed, he burned, while he pens the damnable trocity.

When reason returned with the morning, when he had slept off the fumes of the night's debauch, he experienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, for the crime of which Mr. Robinson had been guilty; but it was, at best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul remained untouched. He again plunged into excess, and soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed.

In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a frightful appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might be expected, fled in extreme terror at Mr. Robinson's approach. He had so much of his old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved him. But this feeling soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to his final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of perverseness. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. Yet he is not more sure that his soul lives, than he is that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the heart, one of the indivisible primary faculities, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgement, to violate that which is law, merely because we understand it to be such? This spirit of perverseness, came to his final overthrow. It was this unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself to offer violence to its own nature, to do wrong for the wrong's sake only that urged him to continue and finally to consummate the injury he had inflicted upon the cat. One morning, in cold blood, Mr. Robinson slipped a rope about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; hung it because he knew that it had loved him, and because he felt it had given him no reason of offense; hung it because he knew that in so doing he was committing a sin, a deadly sin that would so jeopardize his immortal soul as to place it if such a thing were possible, even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of God.

On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, Mr. Robinson was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of his bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that Mrs. Robinson, and himself, made their escape from the conflagation. The destruction was complete. His entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and he resigned himself thenceforward to despair.

He's about the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity. But he's detailing a chain of facts and wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On the day succeeding the fire, he visited the ruins. The walls, with one exception, had fallen in. This exception was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, even stood about the middle of the house, and against which had rested the head of his bed. The plastering had here, in great measure, resisted the action of the fire, a fact which he attributed to its having been recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were collected, and many people seemed to be examining a particular portion of it with very minute and eager attention. The words "strange" "singular" and other similar expressions, excited his curiosity. Mr. Robinson approached and saw, as if graven in _bas relief_ upon the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat. The impression was given with an accuracy truly marvelous. There was a rope about the animal's neck.

When Mr. Robinson first beheld this apparition for he could scarcely regard it as less, his wonder and his terror were extreme. But at length reflection came to his aid. The cat, he remembered, had been hung in a garden adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd by someone with of whom the animal must have been cut from the tree and thrown, through an open window, into his room. This had probably been done with the view of arousing him from sleep. The falling of other walls had compressed the victim of his cruelty into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the lime of which, with the flames, and the ammonia from the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as he saw it.

Although he thus readily accounted to my reason, if not altogether to his conscience, for the startling fact just detailed, it did no the less fail to make a deep impression upon him. For months he could not rid himself of the phantasm of the cat; and, during this period, there came back into his spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse. Mr. Robinson went so far as to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about himself, among the vile haunts which he now habitually frequented, for another pet of the same species, and of somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply its place.

One night as he sat, half stupified, in a den of more than imfamy, his attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had been looking steadily at the top of this hogshead for some minutes, and what now caused him surprise was the fact that he had not sooner perceived the object thereupon. Mr. Robinson approached it, and touched it with his hand. It was a black cat, a very large one, fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had no white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the chest.

Upon him touching the cat, it immediately arose, purred loudly, rubbed against his hand, and appeared delighted with his notice. This, then, was the very creature of which Mr. Robinson was in search. He at once offered to purchase it off the landlord; but this person made no claim to it, knew nothing about it, and had never seen it before.

Mr. Robinson continued his caresses, and, when he prepared to go home, the animal evinced a disposition to accompany me. He permitted it to do so; occasionally stooping and patting it as he proceeded. When it reached the house it domesticated itself at once, and became immediately a great favorite with Mrs. Robinson.

For his own part, Mr. Robinson soon found a dislike to it arising within him. This was just the reverse of what he had anticipated; but he didn't know how or why it was its evident fondness for himself rather disgusted and annoyed. By these degrees, these feelings of disgust and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. He avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and the remembrance of his of his former deed of cruelty; preventing him from physically abusing it. He did not, for some weeks, strike, or otherwise violently ill use it; but gradually, very gradually, he came to look upon it with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its odious presence, as from the breath of a pestilence.

What added, no doubt, to his hatred of the cat, was the discovery, on the morning after he brought it home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only endured it to Mrs. Robinson, who, as he already said, possessed, in a high degree, that humanity of feeling which had once his distinguishing trait, and the source of many of his simplest and purest pleasures.

With his aversion to this cat, however, its partiality for himself seemed to increase. It followed his footsteps with a pertinacity which it would be to make the reader comprehend. Whenever Mr. Robinson sat, it would crouch beneath his chair, or spring upon his knees, covering him with its loathsome caresses. If he arose to walk it would get between his feet and nearly throw him down, or, fastening its long and sharp claws in his clothes, in this manner, to his chest. At some times, although he longed to destroy it with a blow, he was yet withheld from doing so, partly by a memory of his former crime, but chiefly, let him confuse it at once, by absolute dread of the cat.

This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil and yet Mr. Robinson should be at a loss how otherwise to define it. He's almost ashamed to own, even in this felon's cell, he's almost ashamed to own that the terror and horror with which the animal inspired him, had been heightened by one of the merest chimaeras it would be possible to conceive. Mrs. Robinson called his attention, more than once, to the character of the mark of white hair, of which he has spoken, and which constituted the soul visible difference between the strange cat and the one he had destroyed. This mark, although large, had been originally very indefinite, but, by slow degrees, degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a long time his reason struggled to reject as fanciful it had, at length, assumed a rigorous distinctness of outline. It was now the representation of an object that Mr. Robinson shudder to name and for this, above all, he loathed, and dreaded, and would have rid himself of the monster had he dared it was now, he say, the image of a hideous thing of the gallows! Oh, mournful and terrible engine of horror and of crime, of agony and of death!

And now Mr. Robinson wretched beyond the wretchedness of humanity. And _a brute beast_ whose fellow he had contemptuously destroyed, _a brute beast_ to work out for him, fashioned in the image of God. Alas! Neither by day or by night him, the blessing of rest, anymore! During the former the creature left him no moment alone; and, in the latter, Mr. Robinson started, hourly, from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the hot breath of the thing upon his face, and its vast weight, an incarnate night-mare that he had no power to shake off incumbent eternally upon his heart!

Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the feeble remnant of the good within him succumbed. Evil thoughts became his sole intimates, the darkest and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of his usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of all mankind; while, from the sudden, frequent, and ungovernable outbursts of a fury to which Mr. Robinson now blindly abandoned himself, his uncomplaining wife, alas, was the most usual and the most patient of sufferers.

One day Mrs. Robinson accompanied him, upon some household errand, into the cellar of the old building which their poverty compelled them to inhabit. The cat followed him down the steep stairs, and, nearly throwing him headlong, exasperated him into madness. Lifting an axe, and forgetting, in his wrath, the childish dread, he aimed a blow at the animal which, of course, would have proved instantly had it descended as he wished. But this blow was arrested by the hand of Mrs. Robinson. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, he withdrew his arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.

This hideous murder accomplished, Mr. Robinson sent himself forward, and with entire deliberation, to the task of concealing the body. He knew that he could not remove it from the house, either by day or by night, without the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many projects entered his mind. At one period he thought of cutting the corpse into minute fragments, and destroying them by fire. At another, he resolved to dig a grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Finally he hit upon what he considered a far better expediant than either of these. he determined to wall it up in the cellar as the monks of the middle ages are recorded to have walled up their victims.

For a purpose such as this the cellar was well adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed, and had lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was a projection, caused by a flase chimney, of fireplace, that had been filled up, and made to resemble the rest of the cellar. Mr. Robinson made no doubt that he could readily displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could detect anything suspicious.

And in the calculation he was not deceived. by means of a crow-bar he easily dislodged the bricks, and, having carefully deposited the body against the inner wall, he propped it in that position, while, with little trouble, he re-laid the whole structure as it originally stood. having procured mortar, sand, and hair, with every possible precaution, he prepaired a plaster which could not be distinguished from the old, and with this he very carefully went over the new brick-work. When he had finished, he felt satisfied that all was right. The wall did not present the slightest appearance of having been disturbed. The mess on the floor was picked up with the minuteless care. He looked around triumphantly, and said to himself "Here at last, then, my labor has not been in vain."

His nest step was to look for the cat which had been the cause of so much wretchedness; for he had, at length, firmly resolved to put it to death. Had he been able to meet with it, at the moment, there could have been no doubt of its fate; but it appeared that the cat had been alarmed at the violence of Mr. Robinson's previous anger, and forebore to present itself in his present mood. It is impossible to describe, or to imagine, the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the absence of the cat occasioned in his chest. It did not make its appearance during the night and thus for one night at least, since its introduction to the house, Mr. Robinson soundly and tranquilly slept, even with the burden of murder upon his soul!

The second and the third day had passed, and still his tormentor came out. Once again he breathed as a free man. The monster, in terror, had fled the premises forever! He should behold it no more? His happiness was supreme! The guilt of his dark deed disturbed him but little. Some few inquires had been made, but these had been readily answered. Even a search had been instituted, but of course nothing was to be discovered. He looked upon his future felicity and secured.

Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of the police came, very unexpectedly, into the house and proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of his place of concealment, Mr. Robinson felt no embarrassment whatever. The officers bade me accompany them in their search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At length, for the third or fourth time, they went into the cellar. He quivered not in a muscle. His heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence. Mr. Robinson walked the cellar from end to end. He folded his arms upon his chest, and roamed easily to and fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied and prepared to depart. The glee at his heart was to strong to be restrained. He burned to say if but one word, by way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their assurance of his guiltlessness.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Robinson said at last, as the party ascended the steps, "I delight to have allayed your suspicions. I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. Bye the bye, gentlemen, this, this is a very well constructed house." In the rabid desire to say something easily, he scarcely knew what he said at all. "I may say an _excellently_ well constructed house. These wall, are you going gentlemen? These wall are solidly put together;" and here, through the mere phrenzy of bravado, Mr. Robinson rapped heavily, with a cane which he held in his hand, upon that very portion of the brick-work behind which stood the corpse of Mrs. Robinson.

But may God shield and deliver him from the fangs of the cat! No sooner had the reverberation of his blows sunk into silence, then Mr. Robinson was answered by a voice from within the tomb! By a cry, at first muffled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman, a howl, a wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly from the throats of the dammed in their agony and of the demons that exult in the damnation.

Of his own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swooning, Mr. Robinson staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through extremity of terror and of awe. In the next, a dozen stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the cat whose craft had seduced him into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned him to the hangman. Mr. Robinson walled the cat up within the tomb!


	2. The Raven

**lexboss: Thanks**

**Guest: I thought of this thing for weeks and if I did copy and paste it then it would be on here all that time, so no I didn't copy and paste it. Also I know it's the actually story, I'm just trying my best to make it look like it happens in The Amazing World of Gumball and matches the characters. I'm just trying to do my best here. They already did this on The Simpsons.**

**The Raven**

Once upon a midnight dreary, Carrie was pondering, weak and weary,

Over many quaint and curious stories of forgotten lore.

While she nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

as of someone gently rapping at her bedroom door.

"A visitor," Carrie muttered in sorrow, "tapping on my bedroom door.

Only this, and nothing more."

Distinctly, she had to remember it was in the bleak December,

and each separate dying ember brought the shadows on the floor.

Eagerly she wished the morrow, vainly she just had to borrow,

since her books brought an end to her sorrow for the past Elmore.

For the nice and peaceful town the people named Elmore.

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain of each black curtain,

filled her with terrors never felt before.

To stop her soul from chilling, she repeated the words her head was filling,

"A visitor entreating entrance at my bedroom door.

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my bedroom door.

It is that, and nothing more."

Slowly, her soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,

"Dad," Carrie said, "or Mom, truly your forgiveness I implore.

But the fact is I was napping, so gently you came rapping,

and so faintly you started tapping at my bedroom door.

That I was sure I heard you." Then slowly she opened her door.

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long she stood there wondering, fearing,

and doubting, dreaming dreams that nobody has ever dreamed before.

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

and the only work spoken was the whispered word. "Elmore?"

Carrie whispered it, and an echo murmured back the word, "Elmore!"

Merely that, and nothing more.

Back into the bedroom churning, Carrie felt like her soul was burning,

soon again she heard a tapping much louder than before.

"Surely," Carrie said, "surely that is at my window lattice,

Let me see, what's there, and this mystery explore.

Let my soul not chill for a moment and this mystery explore.

I hope it's the wind, and nothing more."

Open here she flung the shutter, when, with a flirt and flutter,

in there stood a stately Raven of the ancient days of yore.

Not the least respectful made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,

but, with demeanor of lord or lady, landed above her bedroom door.

Landed on Carrie's new bust of Pallas right about her bedroom door.

Landed, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling her sad face into smiling,

By the grave and stern appearance of the countenance it wore.

"Though my crest be shorn and shaven, you," Carrie said, "are no craven,

ghastly grim and ancient raven wondering from the nightly shore.

Tell me what is your name of the night's Plutonian shore."

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Then Carrie floated engaged in guessing, but there's no syllable expressing

to the Raven whose fiery eyes now burned her ghostly core.

This and more she sat divining, with her head at ease reclining

on the bed that the lamp-light gloated o'er

But whose bed with the lamp-light gloated o'er?

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then she thought the air got denser, perfumed by an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," Carrie cried, "God had lent me, by these angels he had sent me

respite and nepenthe, from my memories of Elmore!

Drink, oh drink this kind forgetfulness and forget the lost Elmore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" Carrie said, "bird of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether Tempter sent, or tossed you here ashore,

desolate yet undaunted, in this old house enchanted

on this home by all Horrors haunted, tell me truly, I implore

are there...are there palm trees in Florida? Tell me, tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet," Carrie said, "bird of evil, prophet still, if bird or devil!

By Heaven that bends above us, by God we all adore

tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant heaven,

it shall cleanse a sainted town that the people call Elmore.

Cleanse the nice and peaceful town the people call Elmore."

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"So that word's our sign of departing, bird or enemy," Carrie shrieked, angry and upstarting

"Go back to the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore!

Don't leave a black feather as a token of that lie my soul had spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken and get off the bust of my door!

Take my anger from my afterlife, and my form from my door!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still its staying, still its sitting

on the pale looking bust of Pallas just above her bedroom door.

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

and the lamp-light o'er him streaming brings his shadow to the floor.

And Carrie's soul from within the shadow that remains floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted, nevermore.


End file.
